


La Fièvre de la Nuit

by fajrdrako



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fajrdrako/pseuds/fajrdrako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie thinks about Doyle with hot nights and hot skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Fièvre de la Nuit

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in [**Night Music in B and D**](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Night_Music_in_B_and_D) from Keynote Press, Ottawa, Canada, May 1998. With thanks to Marcelle for editing and publishing it.

Bodie awoke from a dream of Doyle. It was the cold that woke him, bone-biting cold. He moved deeper under the woolen blanket, his hand moving to his cock before he could think about it. Was his arousal from the dream? He tried to remember fragments and couldn't. It had been a good dream, but as with so many good things, it eluded recapture.

So: recreate it, or make another. He knew with his innate sense of time that there was still at least an hour to go before Doyle would come from the front room to collect him. Unless something happened. Unless they were detected by the mob next door. Unless the bullets flew.

But that was part of what he loved, wasn't it? The danger, the bullets, the tension. Then the release of tension afterwards, living on the edge, letting it get to him sexually -- making sure it got to him sexually because that was such a high.

And fantasizing about Doyle just made it better. He was the nexus of it all, the danger, the sex, wasn't he? Friendship and temptation wrapped up in one physique. His body was suggestive, his manner both teasing and remote. The perfect combination: perfect to drive Bodie made, perfect to fuel the fires.

At first, he had thought himself safe. He couldn't have Doyle for a thousand reasons, so that made it safe to pretend, didn't it, in the privacy of his dreams? But safety was no refuge at all, and it was the risk that had driven him on, not just the risk of Doyle's finding out -- he'd always been good at masking his feelings -- but the risk of his own well-being, of loving too much, of needing too much. After Marikka he had vowed: never again.

And now he was trapped buy the intensity of his own desires. How did he think he could keep this, of all things, in safe proportions? A little bit of fun, he had thought. No harm, just a sexy game…and then sometimes the shock of seeing Doyle (sarky, self-contained, needing no one) made his breath stop.

Under the blanket, he cupped his cock protectively in his hands, nursing the ember of his fire. Doyle was in the next room with Liz and a thermos of tea, doing his job and doing it right, and he could picture him, sitting alert with the binoculars in the light of dawn, Liz with the wound equipment, listening to the termites sneeze. Doyle's body would be loosely relaxed but ready to spring into action, the mind sharp even in waiting mode. Listening. Thinking. No one would ever know exactly what he thought, even Bodie, who knew him better than anyone else ever had.

Under the fleece jacket and plaid shirt, Doyle's body would be all muscle and fuzz, hot with energy, because he was the hottest man in England, you could tell that: one glance at him was enough to raise the temperature. Bodie pictured Doyle turning to him with a smile, teeth showing, pulling him against him, slamming him against a wall, grinding their bodies together as lips strained and touched and pressed --

No. Back up. Wrong fantasy. Not here, not on a job, not in cold England where you ran out of shillings for the electric fire and Cowley was there to see the work got done.

Somewhere else. Somewhere sultry…Africa, with the heat thick in the air and the cicadas noisy. He thought of a room he'd once slept in, in Zanzibar, where the bedding smelled of cloves. He'd needed the fan running all night just to fall asleep, but he had never forgotten the heavy sensuality of the place, so like Doyle in spirit.

Warmed buy the thought, he fingered himself delicately. He pictured himself in Zanzibar, lulled by exotic spices and erotic thoughts. He lay in a warm bed, a bed warm enough to kick the covers off, a bed more appropriately used by two -- but of course, he was alone as always. And as always, he was not fully alone because Doyle was there, as Doyle always was there, separate but a part of him. He imagined him, lying askew on another pallet, nearly naked, sensuous, his skin slick with the heat of the Indian Ocean and the African air and his own interior fires. Doyle's masturbation (firing Bodie himself) would have been intense and fast, leaving him gasping and then sending him to sleep, wantonly shameless, not caring that Bodie watched him with slit-shut eyes while the fan cooled his skin and the cicadas sang.

So: picturing a sleeping Doyle, a spent Doyle, a happily languid Doyle, Bodie touched his cock with a firmer touch. His fingers were no longer cold. Doyle's fire warmed him even through the veil of imagination. Doyle in the next room, Doyle there in Zanzibar, Doyle among the cloves and acanthus, Doyle breathing heavily in lust and in sleep; Bodie breathing heavily in lust, sleepless, restless, striving for his slightly-out-of-reach partner. With his right hand, he caressed his balls. With his left hand he circled the cocked, letting Doyle fill his awareness.

Precum wet his hand as he rubbed it around the shaft, squeezing, cupping, tickling, backing off; then plunging into his tight fist, losing all control and plunging into the Doyle of his imagination, the Doyle who lay sleepy and slick with swat and quiescent and accepting in Zanzibar, the Doyle who spread and lifted his knees with hunger in his eyes, and wanted Bodie to do this, wanted him to slam into his tight arse again and again, this Doyle who groaned and writhed under him, letting him pinch his nipples and suck on his tongue and lick his throat, tasting the salt, tasting the taste that was Doyle's alone, and inhaling his scent, mixed with the cloves of the Zanzibar night.

BOdie's arms fell to his sides, climax fading, the shudders running through his body falling away. The Doyle of his fantasy had come as well, green eyes melting to liquid, cum spurting over Bodie's chest and face. And inside hi, Bodie had shot all he had, his heart and soul mixed with the semen, his whole life in thrall to this clever and elusive man.

He lay, half in the chill of a London surveillance flat, half in the torrid African room where the fan coaxed the air into currents and cicadas sang of sex as if all creation where a hymn to Doyle's sensuality.

He thought dimly of getting up to clean himself, but he didn't want to leave the warmth of the blanket or the warmth of his thoughts.

The door opened. "Up an at 'em, sunshine," said 4.5 loudly. "C'mon, we're to be Cow's office in fifteen minutes, and the traffic's getting heavier. Up!"

"I'm up, I'm up," muttered Bodie, his lip curling at the ambiguity -- a lie in two ways at once. Doyle was talking about the case, his words as quick as his movements as he checked the ammo in his gun, replacing the clip, walking to the door, turning to add an afterthought. Bodie, trained to listen with both ears, took it all in, but part of his mind was with Africa, and the body of the man before him, as beautiful encased in jeans and fleece jacket and shirt as in the sheen of African sweat which shone in the subtropical moonlight.

He checked his own gun, shrugged on his jacket, and followed Doyle down the stairs, footsteps heavy and quick. This was another day, an op well under way, Liz now working with Lewis upstairs in the cold flat. Bodie was whistling as he reached the pavement.  
\- - -  



End file.
